


My Hunger Is a Forest

by Bohemienne



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Captain America: The First Avenger, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 18:03:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12064212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bohemienne/pseuds/Bohemienne
Summary: If his hunger had a name, then it was Steven Grant Rogers.





	My Hunger Is a Forest

**Author's Note:**

> Mutual pining/angstfic in WWII. There will be more chapters but I can't commit to any set posting schedule right now, sorry!

If his hunger had a name, then it was Steven Grant Rogers.

He saw those flashing eyes whenever he closed his own, blue and green and dark with possibility. He felt those bony joints jabbing into his spine, his ribs, when no one was there. And most of all, he heard that voice, fierce and proud and determined, ringing in his own head. Steering his thoughts. Burning in his blood. He heard that voice, and he couldn’t help but obey.

But those echoes, those memories, they couldn’t sustain a man. Not in Brooklyn, not marching through the Italian Alps, and certainly not on that metal slab. He’d reach for them, beg for them even—it was all a blur—but it was like grasping for a wisp of smoke. He could never latch on to Steve. He could never have his fill.

And it was for the best, now, now that Steve was a captain, a hero, a motherfucking messiah. He could shred himself up inside with hunger. It was nothing he hadn’t done before. He could bleed and kill and die for him, crumble into dust for him, and it would be better than any taste he could possibly have. It was far better than he deserved.

So he told himself, but hunger told the sweetest lies.

 

*

 

“What the hell was that back there?” The voice stopped Bucky, but only for a second. “You got somethin’ you need to say?”

Steve’s hand clamped down on the back of Bucky’s neck, and his stomach curled up tight. _Don’t touch me,_ he wanted to scream, but he was too weak. Instead, he settled for, “Dunno what you mean.”

“The way you—were talking to her. Agent Carter.” Steve’s grip tightened, god, he would have to get used to that strength, that height on him.

Bucky tried to shrug him off. “Can’t a guy flirt?”

“I’ve seen you flirt. That,” Steve said, “was not flirting. That was . . .” Finally he released him and his voice sank. “I dunno. Something else.”

“’S been a few months. I’m out of practice, I guess.”

And suddenly the booze, the adrenaline, the constant hunger in his gut—it all drained away. He was exhausted. After the labor camp, after their long march back to base, the past few days had been nothing but endless medical tests and interviews and briefings and strategy sessions, punctuated only with a few rounds at the pub with Dugan and the others and a few hours in bed, staring at the wall. But now he finally had Steve near him, Steve and no one else, and all he craved was sleep.

“Yeah. Well.” Steve tugged at his dress uniform blazer to straighten it. “She’s not—You should show her more respect.”

Respect. It took all of Bucky’s energy not to laugh. He slumped back against the wall of the barracks corridor, shaking his head. The dame had been eyefucking Steve right there in the middle of the pub. “So you two, uh . . .”

Steve took a deep breath, and Bucky felt bile rushing up the back of his throat. Why did he ask? He didn’t want the answer. God, he didn’t want to know. He wished he could claw the words back.

“No. Nothing like that.” But his ears turned red at the tips, and he looked so _boyish_ then, he looked like _Steve_ , and Bucky knew he wanted it to be like that.

He barked a dry laugh.

Steve glanced away, the flush spreading to his cheeks, his whole face. “Listen, Buck, I know the past few days have been—chaotic—”

Bucky tried not to listen. His heartbeat was thunder in his ears anyway; he focused on Steve’s face, that face he never thought he’d see again, and the old face he knew he never would. This wasn’t better or worse—it was Steve, but it was so much _more_ of him. And, god, if Bucky had known hunger before, what he felt now was a ravenous gnawing that tore him apart.

Then someone brushed past them in the hall, and Steve took a step toward him, blocking out the weak amber light as he loomed over Bucky. Bucky sucked in his breath; his heart lurched into his throat. Steve burned so hot, it was like standing too close to a radiator, but god, did Bucky want to lean into it. He’d give anything to let it burn him through.

This was what he dreamed of. The rope that pulled him through the horrors of the labor camp, the light he kept trudging toward as the pain in his body calcified and cracked. Sometimes it was like this, even though Steve was shorter in his dreams—a chance meeting, their bodies brushing together, the heat between them a magnet snapping them into one.

He would cup one hand to Steve’s face. Fist the other into his shirt, or pull on his tie. And, god, he was sick, he was broken long before Hydra ever broke him open, but sometimes he’d think further even than that. He’d drag Steve’s mouth to his and lick into every corner of him, finally learn what all that goodness and fire tasted like, sweet and honeyed and pure. He’d cover Steve’s body with his own and let himself be crushed by Steve’s gravity, let himself melt away in Steve’s heat.

Steve took a step back to the other side of the corridor, and it felt like he took all the air in the room with him.

“Anyway—” Steve’s voice sounded thick. “I’m just . . . so glad you’re okay.”

Bucky suppressed a twitch. He was a million miles from okay. His body felt stuffed with razorblades, with whatever those scientists had done to him, and now his Steve was here, in the war, stronger, to be sure, but still so vulnerable—

And Bucky didn’t think he could stop himself anymore. Not with bombs falling and the earth tearing open and his skin threatening to split apart from the effort of trying to hold him together, trying to hold everything inside.

He pried his fingers apart—they’d curled into a fist, against his will—and started to reach for Steve. “Steve . . .” His heart pressed up into his throat as he tried to speak. “Steve, I . . .”

But there weren’t any words that could contain the things he felt. His hunger was a forest, dark and deep. He couldn’t say where it began or ended; he only knew it was missing that vital thing.

“I . . . should get some sleep.”

Steve blinked, as if he’d been speaking some other language. Maybe he had. Words and numbers snuck into his thoughts sometimes, after all. But then Steve exhaled, shoulders falling, and he looked away. “Yeah. Yeah, I think that’s for the best.”

 _You could join me._ It sat on the edge of his tongue, waiting for a chance to slip out. But if Bucky had any discipline, any goddamn sense left, he wouldn’t give it a chance.

“G’night, Buck,” Steve murmured, more to the wall than Bucky.

Bucky nodded, not trusting himself to talk, and slunk into his bunk.

He dreamed that he was wandering, tall, dark trunks pressing all around him and mist suffocating him. A voice called to him. Guided him along. Soft and steady, bright and golden, it echoed through the trees with promises of sweetness, light, of firm arms to hold him together and not let anything escape.

No matter how he stumbled, though, he couldn’t find his way.

**Author's Note:**

> [starandshield.tumblr.com](http://starandshield.tumblr.com)


End file.
